New Blog, Follow Me There

I’m moving my poetry over to a new blog: Rhymes with Duck

You can find my writings here, https://rhymeswithduckblog.wordpress.com/

I’ll still update here every now and then with personal shit.

Thank you to all my readers. You’re all amazing.

Rose Cotton

wmuambermartin05

 

hapless fledgling
unable to move
unable to make a sound,
save the minute gasps and gurgles
(which I’m sure would
make my heart swell)

I am trying to get back to you

innocence
wrapped in rose cotton
I’ve a thousand names
yet none of them deserve you

I am trying to get back to you

there in a dark room
I dream of the weight
of your frame cradled in my arms
I dream selfishly of your
gaze weaving into my eyes
knowing you are mine

I am trying to get back to you

all the while
I am waking up to you
remembering a song made
just for us
my body is tired and stretched
with new scars, new lines
but they are all for you
I am all for you

I am trying to get back to you

even so,
I am not solely fixed on
the smaller you,
but all of you
to watch over you
helplessly in love
growing into happiness
growing into a place
I never knew (I love you)

I am trying to get back to you

and never on my chest had you laid,
instead
floating in red water
suspended in a spiraling
oblivion
I have watched your
grapeblue seedy pieces
over and over
and over
washing away from
my insides

I am terrified that I may never come back to you

I am harvesting smiles of the mothers
with ten pounds
of ten fingers
and ten toes

barren
barren

I am no woman
I am an empty shell

The Phone Call

I spoke with my childhood abuser last night.

Out of mania, or compulsion, impulse, or maybe just the simple need for closure, I sent him a Facebook message yesterday asking him to please talk to me.

My childhood abuser is my cousin. When I was 12, I was raped and repeatedly sexually abused by this man, then 38. For years my family swept my trauma under the rug (they still do, for the most part).

Yesterday something pulled me to message him. I’ve done this before. I’ve texted him, called him, have pleaded for him to acknowledge me in my adulthood for the pain he’s caused me. He has never responded to me; until last night.

I received a phone call and I knew it was his number. My heart kind of froze. I thought for a split second about not answering it, but I did.

His voice was eerily comforting. I almost… missed him. I felt relieved to hear his familiar lowness, the scratch in his voice.

He thanked me for the message, that he’s happy I reached out. He was happy to see me at our cousin’s wedding a few weeks ago. He cares about me, he loves me. He wants to talk to me and give me that acknowledgement.

My logic told me to be cold and angry, yet I found myself asking him (as I’ve always done before), “How are you? Are you okay? How are the girls? You’re still working for the same company? Thank you for calling me… ” It seems the effects of Stockholm Syndrome were still present.

My body was shaking from the adrenaline, yet I felt nothing. There were no emotions on the surface, nor deep down. There was nothing to pull out. No anger, no fear, no sadness.

He wants to set up a time to meet with me and talk. I want that, too. I want so badly to hear from him, face to face, what he did.

The Pretty Blue Bows

Every now and then
I miss the lull
and low buzzing of a good high.
Wow!
What a thrill after you
plug it into your arm.
Liquid lightening climbing
through the empty spaces of
yourself.

All those spaces that mommy
dearest left deserted
void, cut up
like coupons in the garbage.
And father wasn’t much
help at all
taking it away himself
with a heavy load.

That incipient surge
that belts out,
all the while
making the eyes tumble
backwards,
staring off into
the tiny cranial stars
making up
tiny cranial constellations.

Of course I couldn’t
slip the steel into my
own arm at first.
He would tie such beautiful
tourniquets
that would make girl scouts
wet themselves.

Pretty rubber blue bows.

I was kneeling on the
bathroom floor,
bending over like a virgin.
Spreading my legs out
and panting out loud.
I couldn’t tie a pretty blue bow
but a decent one I did.
Minutes carried on and
I heard the child within myself
scream
before I got the guts
to inject it.

I guess it does make me
feel a little bit sad now.

Anyhow,
my hands were wet and
slippery.
I didn’t know what the fuck
I was doing
but knew what would happen
if I wasn’t doing it.
In it went and off I went
into this land where I
drool on the outside
but blissfully float internally.

Anyone that tells you that
drugs aren’t worth it
has never ridden the heroin dragon
over snowy peaks of china white.
And how lovely you become,
about thirty pounds lighter
than August,
eyes about five shades darker,
lips beautifully cracked, bleeding,
unkissable.

I am the Reverend
of my own ritual.
Delivering the wine into
my thirsty throat,
but the bread never comes.
I just kneel at the pew
and worship.
Prayer makes to forget .
Prayer is better than sleep.
The more saturated I become
the cleaner I become.

It takes away the sin.

I forget how I’ve been
torn apart limb by limb.
I forget the men that came by
the apartment to see me hazy-eyed,
panty-less
propped up in a cheerleader’s
costume.
I forget how he said to smile
and they exchanged money.
above the bed.

Here I go… nodding off.
Prayer is better than…

I forget how old he was
when he sat me on his lap and
pulled my hair back,
pushing into my prepubescence.
I forget how they all denied it
when I came crawling
out for help,
still raw.

Sometimes when I’m praying
I begin to feel that
I am more beautiful
when I am soggy with poison
and bruised from a grip
and broken into.
Kissable.

But then I begin to remember
when all of the fairy dust wears off.

Now the World Knows! World Mental Health Day 2016

About a year ago, I was contacted by a media group in the UK asking if they could interview me and possibly publish an article about my experience with Dissociative Identity Disorder. Well, a year later, it’s here.

The Sun, UK has published the interview, as well as the Daily Mail.

What the fuck.

I have mixed emotions…

My main concentration is to raise awareness- with mental illness, DID, suicide prevention, rape… I mean, just things that I’ve personally dealt with. That’s my entire focus. I want people to inform themselves, to know that DID specifically isn’t this silly little game, but it’s YEARS of personal turmoil. It’s trauma, it’s real life pain, confusion and work.

When I started this process of being interviewed, I was in such a different place in therapy, in life, with myself. Now that this has been published, it is actually quite trippy to see my progress.

(I’d also like to point out that there are definitely a few errors on the articles. One of them being that Rogue is a “sex addict.” So not true. )

ANYWAYS, there’s lots I could say on the subject.

And to new readers, yes, I am real. 
Yes, DID is actually a real disorder.
No, I’m not like Sybil. I’m a relatively normal person just like everyone else.

Overall, if you’re curious about Dissociative Identity Disorder, I encourage you to educate yourself.

Here’s a link to an article I wrote regarding DID from a personal standpoint- https://lazarusandlithium.com/10-things-we-want-you-to-know-a-letter-from-a-multiple-to-a-singleton?iframe=true&theme_preview=true

And here’s a link off of NAMI: https://www.nami.org/Learn-More/Mental-Health-Conditions/Dissociative-Disorders

In Remission

I have been embarking on very unsettling territory recently; stability. Perhaps, dare I say it, even happiness?

Over the past couple of months, my mental health has been on a steady incline. The voices have ceased, compulsions have stopped, self-harm tendencies have vanished, and insomnia has been replaced with a regular sleep cycle. It dawned on me this morning during meditation that depression is no longer my safe place. While I acknowledge that this is a GOOD thing, it is still slightly unsettling. For as long as I can remember, depression has been my go-to. It’s easier to curl up into a ball, self-medicate and flirt with suicide. However, now I find it increasingly more difficult to allow myself to succumb to it. Sure, I still feel depressed from time to time. I give myself room and space to cry. Then, I get back up, walk my dog, watch a funny YouTube video and move on. I find it irresponsible to get drunk now. I’m not interested in putting myself in harmful situations. Happiness and self-integrity has become the new go-to.

Moreover, I’m not fragmented. This is me now, in my entirety.

There was a shift weeks ago. I had taken ecstasy with my girlfriend. (I am not condoning drug use.) I respond well with natural remedies, including psychedelics. During this particular experience, I felt a lot of my superficial worries fall away as the maternal spirit of the universe visited me and assured me to begin trusting myself and also start loving myself. She told me it’s now time to start shedding childhood pain. She assured me she would stay with me through the healing process. Sure enough, since then, life has been getting better. I found my way back to nature and she has kept her word.

I know, it’s a little esoteric and perhaps absurd. But I find a lot of truth behind the divine and feminine energy.

Anyways, my point is I’m getting better and I feel better about myself and the situations surrounding me. I’ve been working hard on myself and my relationships. I’ve especially been focusing on trying to let go of unhealthy thinking patterns. Anything that has been weighing on my heart and soul, I’m trying so hard to let go of. The common lesson here:

Let go.

For example, I noticed I had a lot of illogical worries and controlling thoughts in my romantic relationship. And it’s not just with my girlfriend; these are patterns I’ve carried from my very first relationship. They stem from childhood abandonment, I’m sure. I have trouble letting go. How? I’ve worked so hard in my life to keep people from leaving. I’ve become a master of tethering my loved ones because “everyone leaves.” I want so badly to be loved, so badly to be wanted that no matter what love anyone has ever shown me, it’s never been enough. And that’s not fair.

I’ve been letting go of selfishness. It’s difficult. I want to say that I don’t want to be selfish. I genuinely care for others. Again, this is another survival tactic from my youth. I NEEDED to be selfish in order to make it. In my adolescence, it became a part of me. Now, as an adult and as a woman who wants to care for others and do good in the world, I am making a conscious effort to reject my previous ideas that the world revolves around me. I am not better than anyone else, yet at the same time, no one is better than me.

I’m letting go of control, in the healthiest way. I’m trusting my intuition, trusting the universe a little bit more. Everything will be okay.

I love me.

My girlfriend loves me.

My friends love me.

My dog loves me.

And despite the grudges I hold, my family loves me.

Ugh, what do I do with all this positivity?

Trapeze

the Jupiter rings
beneath my eyelids
have hung themselves to spin
on hoops of speed.

it is a ceremony and every
night I wear my sacerdotal nightgown.
I am catching chalky loaves in my mouth,
and I am waiting for a ghost.

a drooling, steel baby, it is I-
coughing up bits of organs,
plushy, fat blue bulbs of Wednesday,
expelling my mother’s Tuesday.

a little bit of heat will do the trick.
a stick or two- three pumps
and the blood is baptized,
boiling blessings, blossom-bruises.

I, nestled on my glass trapeze,
am playing movies in my eyes,
licking my fingers and pulling up
pages of a magazine.

you are listening to the priests inside
of my stomach-
do they speak God?
does he speak English back?

out into the air I make words,
sounding out like beaten horses.
I let the floor catch my phrases,
I let the sheets decide to hold my weight.

when I turn
onto my pink heels,
I won’t look back to see the
wine I’ve spilled.

I am the hebrew crown
and they are the sutured tourists.

More on Arlo

LOOK AT THIS FACE! LOOK AT HOW CUTE HE IS!! HELP!

Arlo the service pup IT has been going on some pretty spectacular adventures.

Since having him, my social anxiety has dramatically improved. I was getting severe panic attacks before leaving the house to go pretty much anywhere- especially new places. But now, I hardly experience them. We even made some new friends at the dog park! There are regulars at the park by my house and they are very friendly and have wonderful dogs. Arlo’s best friend is a Husky Malamute named Spock. Spock’s human also suffers from depression and Spock has helped him get out of the house and make friends, too!

Arlo loves being out and about, running errands with me. He politely tucks himself away at restaurants and is the best companion.

I’ve noticed that I feel more responsible and more apt to handle things that come my way. I don’t feel as paranoid anymore since I rely on Arlo to be attentive to my surroundings. I feel safe and I finally feel like I can relax. He distracts me during anxiety attacks and provides tons of love with I’m feeling low.

My girlfriend has been amazing and SO supportive. Arlo loves her! She’s a great trainer, too. I plan on having him task trained soon, to meet more specific needs.

It’s been great with him so far. I seriously love this dog.

 


  

  

Thick and Happy

I peel the perfume sampler from the magazine.
it’s a name I’ve never heard of,
another Italian who-ever-the-fuck creating
scents to attract the opposite sex.
scents like “Midnight Princess” and
“Dynamite.”
the girl on the cover looks like
some chick I went to college with-
all thick and happy looking.
I think her name was Lauren?
what was my name?
back then I used to paint
and I’d pass in my assignments with
hidden cocks etched into landscapes.
I’m sitting here on the bathroom floor
identifying women’s shoes as they
walk in and out.
Pseudo-Lauren smiles back at me
in her bright Chanel lipstick.
this is where I am.
Pseudo-Lauren gets a salty-teared
facial, dripping down her glossy dress.
this is where I am-
rubbing Italian sampler perfume
on my wrists
so I can pretend that I’m just
as valuable as the thick and happy model.

Withdrawal

convulsing and eyes
peeling back on their own.
lips parting exposing white houses
biting at themselves, jawbreakers.
glasses of blood and spit evacuating from the
throat. noises like an angry frog
bubbling from the bell-tower.
one bottle too many.
three pills too many.
sizzling sockets
fevers breaking pencils,
breaking bones and clipboards.
blue tethers tying wrists down-
a preacher exorcising Lucifer from
an atheist schoolgirl.
there are pockets of sick skin exploding
and cries that don’t bellow from infants.
halos are tipping off from the heads
of angels, tumbling like dimes on to
the silver trays.